Two and a half years ago, I was just a normal college student. Approaching graduation. Looking for a job. Having a ton of fun. Even part of a sorority. I was on the road to the ‘real-world,’ and nothing could stop me from becoming a productive and successful adult. Until I got a job.
See, after graduation, a funny thing happened. Somehow, I became a roadie.
Yep. Those black shirt wearing, bus riding, case pushing roadies who travel with whichever band. Setting up the concerts drunk fans come to sing along to. Every day a different city. Every night a short sleep while our bus driver carries us to the next venue. We wake up, and do it again. Glamorous.
Now, to be fair, I don’t pull chains. I don’t climb truss. I don’t even wear black most of the time. Coordinating crew, setting up dressing rooms, helping out the band. My hands don’t get too dirty. But I have a bunk on a tour bus and shower in the arenas. It counts. Roadie-Light, if you will.
We are there first in the mornings. We are the last ones out at night. We are grown adults with funny nicknames and lots of tattoos. Weeks between trips home, only carrying what can fit in a suitcase or onto a truck. It has been two years, and just now am I beginning to grasp ‘life on the road.’
The chosen few who sacrifice a lot for the sake of the music. Or the sake of the lifestyle. Or, at least, the sake of the paycheck. These ramblin’ men and the scarce but brave women who help organize them. This community of vagabonds. The family I have been accepted into. We are roadies, and this is our world.
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